


A Fool Without Your Heart

by objectlesson



Category: Cars (Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Confessions, Doc's Robe, Drinking to Cope, First Time, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Road Trips, Romance, Some Gay Ass Yearning in this here fic, mentions of internalized homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-13 22:44:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19260670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Looking hard and longing at Lightning McQueen is a thing you do too much, like drinking, like hurting.





	A Fool Without Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY KATIE I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!!! My time in this fandom would honestly NOT have been as fun and wonderful without you, and I'm so so so grateful for out daily chats and bolstering and general encouragement (enabling???) that we share. I love you and I love your writing and you deserve the best birthday ever. 
> 
> This is inspired by a mood boad which was inspired by the Grizfolk song Bounty on my Head, which I recommend because it's DEFINITELY about the way Doc Hudson loves Lightning McQueen. 
> 
> I apologize for any typos!!! I wrote this in two days lmaoooo.

—-

The sun is poised above the butte just so, and it’s doing that _thing_ where it back-lights him, catches on the gold of his hair and even though you’re trying hard to do anything but, you get lost staring. Just standing there with your arms crossed and your aviators on, tracing the rippling line of his throat with your eyes.

Looking hard and longing at Lightning McQueen is a thing you do too much, like drinking, like hurting. Like scrolling craigslist casual encounters and finishing in your fist before you ever work up the will to email any of the men looking for the same dirty thing you are. 

A rivulet of water escapes from the corner of his mouth, rolls down the cut of his jaw to pool in the ditch of his collarbone, which you can _see_ because he cuts the necks out of all his teeshirts and they stretch wide and gaping in the wash. He wipes the back of his hand across his lips and your gaze snags on the soft, ruined shape of this mouth, the thing you see when you close your eyes before you sleep. 

He offers you the bottle. “S’fucking _hot,”_ he mumbles, stretching, leaning against the hood of his car with his arms up so you can see the sweat-marks in his pits. “Hydrate, old man. You’re not so good at practicing what you preach, you know that? Always riding _me_ about drinking water, never drink it yourself.” 

“M’not precious cargo,” you tell him, pressing the bottle to your lips without taking a sip. You think about the sloppy way he throws water back, how his spit is all over this, how your favorite way to self-destruct right now is to think about kissing him, while knowing you never will. “My body’s already broken.” 

“Aw, you think I’m precious?” he jokes, grinning at you, peeling off the car to lay a hand on your arm with mock sincerity. 

It burns; his touch always does. It’s for the better, honestly, you’ll never have him for real, because he’d set fire to you bed, he’d leave you a pile of ash. “I think you’re young, and should take care of yourself, that’s all,” you grumble, shoving him gently with your hip. 

_The most precious thing there is,_ you think as he climbs back into the roll cage and straps his helmet on, bare shoulder jutting out through the oversized neck of his shirt, the shape of your palm, if you cup it just right. 

The sun drops behind the butte, but you keep your aviators on. 

—

He refuses to fly unless its absolutely necessary, even if you get him a first class seat and feed him mimosas the whole time. He says he thinks it’s unnatural, being up in the clouds in a tin can, but you know he’s really just scared. Notice his white knuckles as he grips the armrest, the way he keeps tightening his seat-belt. That's the thing about Lightning McQueen: he can’t hide shit from you, because all you do it watch him, track every detail, imagine how _good_ you’d be at holding him tight and petting his hair to calm him down. Not a single thing he does gets by you. 

He does alright on a plane with just your voice and a half Xanax, but he could do better. _You_ could do better, if you were allowed to love him the way you already do. The way he deserves to be loved. 

Instead you just get to sit there on the aisle seat calling the flight attendant over every few minutes, because that’s how fast he’s downing those mimosas. “Maybe it’s time for another Xanax,” he says. There’s a spectacular pout on his face, and you have imagined biting it so many times, though not as many times as you’ve thought about biting his laziest smiles, the ones that just beg to be licked open, made pink and swollen under your teeth. 

“Hell no, you’ve been drinking. Can’t mix that with alcohol,” you remind him. 

“I mean, I’m not _drinking_ drinking. It’s just champagne,” he offers, eyes wide, hopeful. “A Xanax _or_ something stronger would help, knock me out so we wake up in Detroit. That _have_ those little bottle shots.”

You shoot him a stern look. “Kid. You have a race twenty four hours after we land, you really want to get fucked up on a plane?” 

He wears you down, though, always does, until you’re nothing but dust getting swept away in his exhaust. So, you end up downing four mini bottles of Malibu between the two of you, mixing it with orange juice, throat burning as the cabin gets tight and hot, and you can smell his breath as he dips close. All you can think about are his pouts, his grins, his laughter, his teeth and the way he licks them sometimes, when he’s concentrating on the road. 

Lightning likes getting you drunk because he thinks you’re strong all the time, and that you only crack if he weakens your defenses, softens the ice-walls you’ve built with liquor. He doesn’t know it’s not the alcohol that wrecks you, it’s _him._ His gaze loose and unfocused, his lips pink because he chews them all the time. His hands, which he lays on your elbow, your shoulder, your _thigh,_ just easily there while you talk, like it grounds him to reach across the divide between your seats and remind himself you’re there. 

He thinks he’s got you compromised, here in this tin can in the clouds. But you’re _always_ compromised, around him. Dreaming of all the ways he’d wound you, and how you’d lick those wounds while you sewed his up and kissed the sutures. 

—-

The next Race is in Reno, and instead of flying into Nevada from Radiator Springs he convinces you to _drive._ “It’s like a road trip, like _bonding time,”_ he tells you, and you’re so fucking glad he doesn’t say _father-son bonding time_ that you don’t even register how _bad_ a idea it is, to coop yourself up in a two-door with Lightning McQueen. He’s got you confused, mixed up like you always are around him, counting the moles on his chest because you can see his chest because he doesn't wear _normal shirts,_ or shirts _at all,_ when it’s this hot. So, you agree. 

Once you cross the border into California, you realize what a terrible mistake you’ve made. 

He’s inescapable, sitting shotgun. Right there next to you for _hours,_ sweating so much you can smell him, because the A/C isn’t working right so you have to make do with rolling down the windows instead, letting the hot desert air in to buffet you both, making a tousled cornsilk mess of his hair. He sings along to every song on the radio and he’s so tone deaf you should be mad, but every stupid little thing about him just makes you love him more. You suppose that’s what love _is,_ really. Not just seeing the good in someone, but watching them so intently you see everything, and hunger for all the ugly messy parts, too. 

You blow past Irwindale, past Los Angeles, the tense, traffic clogged network of freeways like veins and onto the I-5, which will eventually take you to the 395 in Nevada. It’s slower than you want it to be, more trucks on the road than seems fair. “Should have flown,” you tell him when you stop in Bakersfield for gas and the shittiest coffee you've had in _years._ Things just taste worst in Bakersfield, you think, something about the little cow-shit towns surrounding it, the ugly, chewed up mess of it stuck in the middle of the central valley collecting tragedy like hair in a drain. 

“What, you’re not having fun?” he asks as he pumps your gas, looking like something from a Springsteen video in his ass-hugging denim, his sunglasses pushed up into the wheat-gold waves of his hair. He’s the prettiest thing in Radiator Springs, so he’s down-right devastating here. An American dream, while you keep shooting shifty looks over your shoulders like a criminal, wary of every old cowboy heading in and out of the mini-mart, wondering what they think about you, an old man here at a gas station with a young, pretty boy. Lightning doesn’t ever worry about that sort of thing, he’s never _had_ to. He doesn't see the world as a series of alleys to get blown or beaten in, has never had to carry himself differently in backwoods towns, red states. So, it’s your job to cover for him. Realize the ways in which the two of you might be read, and protect him accordingly. 

“Just pump the gas,” you tell him, gesturing for him to pick up the pace. “Gonna tell Fillmore how shitty and slow you’d be in a pit.” 

That kicks him into gear, because Lightning McQueen never passes up an opportunity to race. He finishes up, replaces the pump and hops back into the car, shooting you a complacent, devil-may-care grin, eyes silently imploring you to tell him he did a good job. Somehow, he cares what you think about him all the time, even regarding nonsense things like how fast he pumps gas.

You escape Bakersfield unscathed, nothing but lingering looks clinging to your back, a clueless boy with his knees spread as he sits beside you, humming along to some shitty country ballad on the radio like he knows the words to every song in the world. 

—-

After that stop, you hit a stretch of bad luck. Like the city’s greedy hands clung to you while you drove away, tried to hold on and failed but left handprints all over your bumper. 

There’s an unreasonable amount of traffic and the car keeps over heating. You make do by pulling over a few times to wait for her to cool down, blasting the heater when you can’t get off the freeway to cool down the engine. Just when you're about to tell him there’s a chance you’re not making it to Reno tonight, he says, “Hey, let's call it a day. We still have time, I don’t want to bust your car. I’ll get us a motel and we can eat greasy diner food and have a do-over tomorrow.” 

You don’t want to get a motel room with Lightning McQueen in some middle of nowhere town off the 5. You also don’t have the words to explain to him _why._ He treats your sexuality like a simple fact about you unrelated to your experience of the world, like how blue is your favorite color, neat whiskey your favorite drink. He doesn’t even notice the way you _look_ at him, the constant longing, the hunger bleeding out of you like lymph from a wound. You’ve survived this long because you noticed every little thing, every sideways glance, every set-tight jaw, flexing fist. It’s how you’ve stayed out of trouble, but also how you’ve found other men like you, how you get your needs met: close, constant observation. Meanwhile he just _races_ , gaze fixed on nothing save for the burning road ahead of him, the prize at the end of it. You’ve got to keep him from crashing, from walking head-on into dangerous situations because he forgets what happens to men like you in towns like this. 

But the car is too hot and you’re too tired and you’ve been inhaling the smell of his sweat for _hours_ while you’re jacked up terrible coffee and a motel bed sounds like the only feasible option, really. So, you relent. You’ll just be careful. 

You tell him to stay in the car while you book the room and he does as he’s told, because he listens to you most of the time, even if you don't give him a reason for your caution. 

—-

You walk to a liquor store on the corner while he showers, come back with an overpriced bottle of whiskey and find him spread out on one of the beds in nothing but a towel, chest narrow and lovely and dripping wet still. “You’re gonna make a wet spot there. You’ll be sorry when you try to sleep,” you chide, gaze leaping away from the stretch of gold shimmering skin. 

“I don’t care, feels good now,” he murmurs, eyes fluttering closed. That makes it easier for you to look at him, so you do for a moment, flay yourself open on the blade he doesn't even realize he carries as your gaze climbs up the length of his body, settles on the steady rise and fall of his sternum, back down to the soft bulge of his cock under the towel. “The car was _already_ hot without the A/C but I feel _fried_ from the heater. Just wanted to like, stand in the cold water for an hour. Dunno if I’ll ever move again, you’re gonna have to scrape me off this bed and cart me to the track tomorrow.” 

You don’t say anything, just tear your eyes away from him again, because you’ve let them linger long enough you’re about to get to spiral into the worst sort of fantasies. Not just the idle ones about kissing him, licking the water up off his ribs, but the _detailed,_ frustrating kind. When you think about how goddamned _good_ you would make him feel, on your fingers, on your cock, but also after the fact, holding him up against your chest, petting his hair. You'd fuck him perfect, sure. But you’d love him so good, too, give him exactly what he needed. You already _do,_ but there’s so much more inside you, a well so deep you could drown the both of you in it. 

“Hey,” he says quietly, jarring you out of your thoughts. “M’Sorry my fear of flying killed your car.” 

“Oh, fear? Didn't know you were _scared,_ boy. Thought it was how _unnatural_ _it is,”_ you remind him and he grins, crossing his legs under the towel. “Sort of makes me feel better about killing the car, knowing you’re honest to god scared. Here I was, thinking we were doing all this driving so you could feel _natural.”_

He laughs, rolls over onto his side so the towel falls away and your throat tightens quick and hard and sudden. You pour yourself a shot of whiskey, finish it of while he gets dressed in a pair of gym shorts and one of his terrible shirts right there in the middle of the room, seemingly not caring if you see him naked or not, because he forgets you’re gay, doesn’t think it factors into your life, doesn't think there’s a chance he might be capable of _hurting_ you _._

You pour yourself another. 

—-

An hour later the sun’s set you’re both drunk on the same motel bed, drunk just like you were on the plane to Detroit, with his hands too close to your skin, his laugh everywhere, the flash of his teeth so white you feel blinded. _Gotta stop doing this_ you think as he leans against you absentmindedly, telling some story you can’t hear because he makes the blood pound in your ears, insistent and deafening. You can feel the wet spot he left on the sheets after his shower beneath your body and you want to press your palms to it, feel the place he once was, sink into his remnants like it’ll stave off the terrible ache of yearning for more. _Gotta stop letting him get so close._

You’re dizzy; there's a gameshow on neither of you are watching, and you don’t want to drink more because you don’t want to be hungover when you drive the remainder of the way to Reno tomorrow, but you’re also _not_ drunk enough for the way he’s suddenly looking at you, eyes soft and hooded, smile the sort of thing you could warm your hands by if it were cold outside. “What?” you ask, pulling away from him, furrowing your brow defensively. “Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“I just—I dunno. I love that you brought your robe from home,” he mumbles, and it’s not at all what you’re expecting. Your hand moves subconsciously to the sash of the robe in question, like you’re checking to make sure it’s still there, that you’re not in danger of it coming untied. You didn't think he noticed this particular thing about you, let alone had any feelings about it, let alone _loved_ it. It’s just a habit you have, a stubborn sort of thing, bringing your pillow and your robe wherever you go because it’s not worth settling for inferior hotel versions when you already have your own which work perfectly fine. Plus, you like having little bits of Radiator Springs with you, things that smell like your house.

“Why?” you ask suspiciously.

“Because I just do,” he says, cheeks coloring in this way that makes your heart stop before it withers with a pang of confusion. He sips his whiskey and you watch the way he licks his lips afterwards, slow and thoughtful, tongue a pink flash. Then he takes a deep, resolute breath and starts talking. “Just, normally, I would have been so _stressed_ today. Freaking out over the trip getting delayed, about not getting to the track early, about the car. And like—I wasn’t, at all. I basically just had fun, listening to music with you and driving with you even though it was a million degrees and there was traffic. I love that you’ve always _got_ everything, that I don’t have to lose my mind worrying because I know it’ll be ok because you'll take care of it. You’ll bring your robe and drink your whiskey just like you always do and nothing bad will happen and I can just fucking _relax_ for once in my life. Slow down a little. I usually hate being slow but I like it, with you.” 

Your throat is tight, your heart thudding too hard in your chest because any acknowledgement of the ways in which you take care of him feels like being split open, scrutinized. Like he can see right through you. The thing is, you _count_ on Lightning moving too quickly to notice how you look at him, look _out_ for him. Having it dragged out into the light sends a spike of panic through your body like electricity. “Nice having a crew chief who does his job, isn't it? You were missing out, back in your one-man-show days,” you say evenly, even though your insides are writhing. 

He smiles, but it wavers. “It’s not _just_ you being a good crew chief, though. Like yeah that’s part of it, obviously but it’s just—it’s everything. I dunno. You’ve really changed me, in the last year. I’ve changed,” he says, shrugging. “I like it.” 

“Glad my robe inspires so much feeling in you, kid,” you say, standing up, committing to another drink because you can’t _handle_ this shit, can’t handle him being so serious and sweet and not _knowing_ what it does to you. This has happened a few times, him getting drunk too fast and suddenly acting all sentimental, telling you how much he appreciates you, how much he _loves_ you. And there’s nothing you can do about it, no way to tell him he can’t use that word casually because it means something _different_ for you. Loving Lightning isn't some sweet, peer-mentor relationship for you, It’s agony. It’s the vast, unrequited love of your life, the one you’ll take to the grave, and he has no _idea._

 _“_ Why do you always get all weird and just make jokes when m’trying to be serious?” he whines, getting up and stumbling to the table to pour himself another drink. You grab the bottle before he can reach it, cutting him off. You can drink yourself stupid tonight, you have _sorrows_ to drown, pain to silence, but booze just makes him run his mouth. Say things he only half-means, while your heart is run through wish fishing wire. “ _Hey,”_ he snaps, swiping messily for the bottle. “So, you get another drink and I don’t? Even though _you’re_ the one driving tomorrow? Because, uh, _you won’t let me.”_

 _“_ Gotta save your pedal leg for the race, you know that,” you tell him, repeating the thing you always say whenever he tries to convince you he’ll help drive. He’s heard it one hundred times before but this time it makes his eyes flash. He reaches for the bottle again, fingers brushing your arm, making your stomach drop as you wrench away. “Thought you liked when I looked out for you, kept you out of trouble. You just gave me a whole speech about it, remember?” 

“Fuck,” he says, turning abruptly away from you and pacing the length of the motel room. You watch him go, brow furrowed, guts knotted up in confusion. “I’m so fucking dumb sometimes, m’sorry. I just. I make these _things,_ out of nothing, and _convince myself_ that maybe you—I dunno,” he says, voice dark with frustration, self-deprecation.

You don’t know what he’s talking about, not exactly, but your chest is unbearably tight, skull hot and prickly with dread. You can feel a storm on the horizon, Lightning McQueen about to crash, confess like you’re a church and he’s committed a sin and you _don’t want to know what it is,_ you just know it’s coming.You’re terrified, so you stand there stunned with whiskey burning in your stomach, watching him card his hands nervously through his hair. “Kid,” you say gently, preparing to talk him off this ledge, whatever it is. “You’re not dumb, you don’t need to apologize. M’not mad. So, whatever this is you’re bent out of shape over…we don’t have to talk about it.” 

“Yes we do!” he yelps, throwing his arms up. “I _have_ to. Because like, this is unbearable, this thing I do over and over again. Getting this idea in my head you feel the same way and then drinking too much and trying to _tell_ you how I feel and having you fucking _remind_ me, every time, that it’s all in my head and that m’just some kid to you, who needs to be babied, shaped up.” 

“You’re not just _some_ _kid,_ Lightning. Jesus Christ. What are you even talking about,” you mumble, setting your drink down because your hand is shaking too badly to hold it steady. He keeps _not saying_ things, referring to this feeling without naming it, and your heart is racing ahead of you, making it hard to breathe. _What do you feel? What idea do you get in your head?_

“You just—“ he deflates, then, drops back down onto the bed, head in his hands. “Sometimes you _look at me,_ in this way. You probably look at everyone that way, I dunno. But you do it, and I wonder,so I let myself believe what I want to believe,” he mumbles, before looking up. “It’s so—arrogant, though. And shitty. Like, this probably isn’t the first time this has happened to you, right? Some younger, confused straight guy falling in love with you? And assuming because you’re gay you’ll just—love him back.” 

It strikes down like a bolt of lightning between you, singeing the carpet, shattering your resolve. The words just echo on a loop then, as you try to make sense of them. _This probably isn't the first time some younger, confused straight guy’s fallen in love with you. In love with you. In love._

You pull one of the flimsy motel chairs out from the table and sit down carefully, before you collapse, before you catch fire. The world’s ended, and he’s just sitting there at the foot of the bed messing with his hair and frowning like the continent’s not crumbling into the sea. “Lightning,” you say quietly, just to feel his name in your mouth, the familiar shape of it before you say anything else. There aren’t _words_ yet; you’re in shock, you don’t believe him, you _can’t_ believe him, but the truth is right there shining back in the wet of his eyes. His confession, his sin. 

_You are the most precious thing there is_ you think, but it’s stuck in your throat, unspeakable. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says miserably, standing up and starting to pace again, shirt falling off one shoulder. Your gaze fixes there for a moment, locking on that newly exposed skin, a flash of gold in the white and beige haze of this room. “I won’t do anything weird, promise.” 

“Hey,” you say gently, voice cracking but finally coming out of you. “Come over here, son. Stop apologizing.” 

He groans and walks to you, dragging his feet warily like he thinks you’ll hit him, the same deep-seated, unshakable fear you have under your _own_ skin, born from the knowledge your desire could get you killed. You pursue it anyway, and apparently, so will he. “I thought I was being _slick,”_ you tell him very quietly, studying his face. “That I was getting away with looking at you. But you caught me.” 

His eyes are wide, disbelieving, and he's swallowing rapidly like he’s trying not to cry. You’d thumb those tears right up if they fell, though. Fix him up good. Instead you reach for his bare shoulder, lay your hand on it gently, thumb petting over the hollow in his throat where his pulse is visibly speeding, his skin so fucking warm and smooth under your fingers. “But you—you do look?” 

“Constantly. S’all I do,” you admit. letting your brow drift down to his. Half your heart still thinks he’s gonna pull away, that you’ve misunderstood somehow. But the other half is stuck on the way he’s looking up at you, the way he’s trembling, the way his hands are flexing at his sides like he wants to touch but isn’t convinced he can, yet. So, you tell him. “I take it back, what I said about you being dumb. Can’t believe you thought there was a chance in hell I didn’t love you back.” 

His exhale tastes like relief and tears and whiskey and you can’t fucking stand it any longer, you cup the flush of his cheek in your palm and kiss him. 

It feels better than your best dreams of him. He’s maddeningly eager; he’s not acting like you’re old or fragile or like he’s afraid to kiss a man for the first time, he’s licking into your mouth, groaning against your lips, rubbing greedy palms up your sides like he can’t wait to get your robe off, and _fuck,_ it’s so much more than you ever expected of him, you feel like you’re vibrating out of your skin, like the overwhelm might kill you. Before your knees buckle you steer him to the bed and lay him out on it, his shirt riding up, exposing more skin for you to kiss. 

You blink, eyes stinging as you stare at him, soak up the hungry way he’s touching you, opening the front of your robe to lay his hands on your chest and just _feel. “God,_ Doc,” he mumbles, voice nothing but an awed, breathy drag as he rubs your pectoral muscles, moving the hair against the grain, thumbing over your nipples experimentally. “You’re so fucking hot, do you know how many _times_ I’ve fantasized about this? Just—you teaching me how to touch you just how you taught me how to race, showing me exactly what you want,” he breathes, mouth an open wet thing you want to spit into, push your fingers inside to feel the slickness of. You want every bit of him _so bad._

“Yeah, that how you want it? Want me to teach you?” you mumble, burying your face in the ditch of his neck to inhale from him, heart palpitating under his idle, exploratory touch. He keens, writhes on the bed beneath you, pulse speeding as you suck at it.

“Fuck, yeah, want you to teach me,” he hisses, digging his nails into soft skin. “I think about—make myself _come_ thinking about getting on my knees for you. You coaching me how to suck your cock just right.” 

“Jesus, baby,” you choke, razing your teeth against him, stomach flipping over. “I’ve made myself come thinking about your mouth,” you admit, palming roughly over his face, thumbing into the pink smear of his lips as he gasps. “Felt so fucking guilty about it.” 

“God, _don’t,_ that’s so hot,” he breathes, voice slurred as you touch his teeth, awed by the sharp perfect white of them. “I’ve never sucked a guy before, you’ll be my first cock,” he murmurs before licking the pad of your thumb. “Gotta show me exactly what to do, break this mouth in.” 

It’s too much for you, the strength of keeping yourself braced over his prone body flickers like a candle about to snuff so you have to roll over onto your back, panting as you shrug out of your too-hot robe and palm down to your cock. “Fuck,” you whisper as you rub it through your boxers, astounded by how hard he’s got you, how _fast_. “Look what you do to me, what you’ve done to me already. Just _talking._ Kissing, with that dirty fucking mouth.” 

He whimpers, scrambling up to stare at your hand moving. “My mouth, it’s wet for you,” he murmurs then, kissing you hard with so much spit, a froth for you to swallow, and _jesus fucking christ,_ who knew Lightning McQueen would _be_ like this, who knew he’d thought about sucking an old man off so many times he can talk filthy about it, tease you, drive you crazy. He climbs onto your hips, the weight of him deliciously solid. 

“Listen to you, god,” you huff out between filthy, dripping kisses, his chin and cheeks spit-wet as he rubs against you, grinding shamelessly so your knuckles dig into his ass as you touch yourself. “Never thought you'd be like this. Thought you’d be ready to bolt the whole time, if I was ever lucky enough to have you.” 

“It is ok? M’I too much?” he slurs, pulling back with his eyes hazy and overflowing with pupil. “I can play innocent, if you like that better.” 

“No,” you say, shaking your head, the word coming out with a breathless laugh. “I love you exactly how you are, love how bad you want it.” You let go of your cock to tangle your fingers in his hair, cup his face between your palms, astounded you can just _hold_ him here, in your hands. The most precious thing in the world. It’s better he’s so loud and hungry for it, because you can’t convince yourself he’s uncertain, that you’re taking advantage. He’s leaving you no room for doubt. 

He grins at you, so big and broken open as he touches your chest, tracing old scars, new wrinkles, mapping it all out like he wants to memorize every crease and fold. He’s backlit the way he was only days ago at the butte, and the memory makes your heart ache. 

“Want it so bad,” he murmurs, backing up and deliberately rubbing his ass against your cock, teasing and clumsy and so _fucking_ hot you white out, breath choked. “You gonna show me how to suck you, old man?” 

“Fuck. Yeah, get on your knees next to the bed,” you order, dizzy and overwhelmed, needing him _off_ of you if you’re gonna think straight enough to talk him through this. Your vision sparkles with static as you sit up in time to watch him struggling out of his shirt, flushed all the way down his chest in anticipation, mouth open, soft, ready. “So fucking pretty, looking up at me,” you whisper, reaching down and stroking his hair, his cheekbone, the corner of those terrible lips. “Gonna suck me good, sweetheart?” 

“Please,” he whispers, momentarily breaking desperate eye-contact to flick his gaze down to your cock, the substantial bulge in your boxers. “Fuck, dream about this all the time. Want to make you so proud.” He mumbles, steadying himself with his palms braced on your thighs as you shift, working your cock out the opening in your boxers, everything so suddenly surreal, time slowed down and sugar-sweet like molasses. 

“Dreaming of it is different than doing it,” you tell him, thinking of the _smell,_ the heat, the sharp musky flavor, how inescapable and terrifying it can be, to have your mouth fucked, your air stolen. You love getting between a man’s thighs, filling your lungs, your mouth, your throat. You love drowning in the debasement of it. You don’t trust that he will, though. There are ways you elevate Lightning McQueen, fabricate distance between your experiences, because up until now, you have loved him from miles away. You touch yourself, watching him watch you, licking his lips, his eyes hazy. “You still want to?” 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he huffs out, exhalation hot and delicious against your cockhead. “This is what I think about when I jack off, Doc. This, this right here.” He gently kisses the inside of your thigh, such a sweet, soft thing amid the raw filth and it _moves_ you, to see his eyes close like that, your leg hair silver against the pink of his lips. “Tell me what to do.” 

You get your hand in his hair, guide him closer. “Just taste, first. Lick it, right into the slit, where it’s wet. Love your pretty pink tongue, always noticing it.”

“God, _fuck,”_ Lightning curses, face wrecked, lines through his brow as he digs his fingers into your thigh hard enough to bruise. “Should I touch it? Or you want to feed it to me?” 

“You can hold it, wrap your hand around the base, here—yeah,” you tell him as he curls his fingers around you, firm and confident. You wonder if he’s watched gay porn, if he’s tried to suck things before to test his gag reflex before, like you did when you were twenty something and dreamed of doing this. He holds you steady, stroking your shaft experimentally with his eyes fixed on the crown. Then, he looks right up at you from under the perfect golden sweep of his lashes, and licks. 

It’s so sweet, so wet. Feels like slick honey fire against your skin and your fingers tighten reflexively in his hair, your heart picking up in your chest. “That’s it, baby.” 

His eyes flutter shut then and he does it again, licks sloppy all over you, these soft, choked-sounding whimpers in his throat the only sound save for your labored breath. Eventually he fits his mouth over the crown and sucks, and that lasts all of three seconds before he moans, lets go of you, and slides down deep as he can. 

You’re reduced to static, to fire. He’s gagging himself, pulling off in a thick mess of drool, eyes watering. “Be careful, you don't have to do—”

“Fuck, I want to, want to see how deep I can take you. I _like_ when you hit the back of my throat,” he murmurs, sliding his puffy lips all over your shaft, face glistening in your precum, his spit. He’s so _messy_ at everything and you love that, how eager and graceless he is. “Tell me what you like, though, how you want it.” 

“I like a lot of movement, tight suction,” you tell him. “You can flatten your tongue up on the underside when m’in your mouth.” It’s all coming out in your crew chief voice, your _racing_ voice, and you wonder if it’s always been like that, if you’ve created a shared language for the two most dangerous thing you love to do, would die for. 

He listens to you, sucks tight and firm, the sensation so nervy you gasp, thrust into his mouth without meaning to and choke him a little. “Fuck, that’s good, baby. Doin’ so good. You also don’t have to suck, the whole time. If your jaw hurts or you can’t breathe you can lick it, kiss it, just use your mouth. I like that too, just being played with, gentle. ” 

“Fuck,” he murmurs as he pulls off, rubbing his face right into you, mouthing over your balls, jacking you off in a froth of saliva he left. “Gonna get addicted to this, gonna want to do it all the time.” 

“Now you know how I feel,” you tell him, petting his hair, fingers nudging up against his sweat-damp skull as he takes you in his mouth again, sucks you hard and deep, tongue tight and fist at the base just like you told him. You love watching him implement the racing techniques you pass on, and this is even more beautiful and thrilling, watching him broken down on his knees, trembling for you, _taking direction_ after so many years of thinking he had it all figured out. _Still got to much to learn_ you think in a haze, stomach tightening up as he pulls off and laps at the slit again, red spots burning on his cheeks, tongue so fucking pink. _Still got so much to teach you._

He’s getting off on it, you can tell. There's his ragged breath, his hollowed cheeks, the way he moans every time you tug a fistful of his hair, put him where you want him.There’s also the way he’s tenting his gym shorts, shifting his hips around, chasing pressure. You want to tell him he can touch himself while he sucks you, but he’s so focused and lost to it you’re not sure he’d want to, and furthermore, you can’t _talk_ at this point. Your words have dissolved, orders giving ways to mindless, babbling praise. You inch closer and closer as he sucks, lashes his tongue, takes you deep and hot and swallows. “Fuck,” you choke out, heart clutching. “Pull off if you don’t want me to come in your mouth.” 

He looks at you through his hair, eyes dark and needy and hungry and just slides deeper, sucks harder, and you let yourself go, knowing full well you can count the number of times a man has swallowed your come on one hand. It’s been rare in your experience so it feels like a profound thing, the way he moans as you shoot off in the wet heat of him, the way his throat ripples. He swallows the first few pulses before choking and pulling off to cough, but even after that he comes _back,_ sucks you down again, mouth soft and puffy and searing hot as he nurses at the crown, licking the remnants of your load up. “Jesus christ,” he rasps, wiping his streaming eyes with the back of a trembling hand once you push him off, too sensitive for more. “You came so _much_ I couldn’t keep swallowing. So much fucking come, so hot. I’ll get better at that, promise.” 

“You were perfect. It was perfect,” you assure him, hooking your hands into his underarms and hauling his dead weight up. “Get on the bed, baby. Gonna eat you up, can’t wait another second for it.”

He scrambles up, flushed and eager. “I got _so_ hard sucking you, m’so fucking hard,” he mumbles, shoving his thumbs into his shorts and tugging them off messily. His cock bobs against his stomach, slick at the tip, red and slender and pretty in its nest of red-blonde curls.

“Fucking gorgeous, look at you,” you breathe, tugging him down the bed with your arms looped around his thighs, arranging him before you split him open, settle on your stomach and press your face into his pubes, inhaling from them. Sweat and spice and _fuck,_ you’re so goddamned dizzy, grinding into the bed like you didn’t just come, like you aren’t an old man. “Gonna suck you so good, baby, gonna empty you out.” 

“Fuck,” he murmurs, fisting in the hotel sheets, arching up off the mattress as you lick his balls, feeling them twitch and gather under your lips. “M’not good at lasting long when I _jack off,_ m’gonna—m’barely holding on,” he murmurs, inner thighs trembling under your hands as you spread him wide. “Sorry.” 

“Oh, you’re telling me you’re _speed?_ Shocker,” you joke, kissing the underside of his cock, loving how it flexes, the heat of it, silk over steel. “Don’t worry, I’ll train you up there, too. Keep you on the edge for hours, show you how to hold on.” 

“Jesus _fuck,_ Doc,” he hisses out as you take him in your mouth, sucking him down easily, tonguing around him rough and hungry and desperate. He’s small enough you can swallow him whole, nose and lips buried in coarse hair, and it’s _heaven_ to have your mouth full while you inhale the close spicy heat of him, suffocate between his legs. 

He lasts a minute, tops, before locking up and shooting off down your throat, fingers white-knuckled in the sheets. It’s like fire in your through, burning you in the best way, like a brand. You suck him well after he’s done, just holding him in your mouth, licking up every twitch, every aftershock as he smoothes his fingers through your hair over and over again. “Damn, that was _particularly_ fast,” he eventually mumbles, voice hoarse. “Promise I can last at least _a little_ longer. When the, like, world-ending excitement of having all my dreams comes true wears off.” 

“M’not worried,” you tell him, kissing up his stomach, his chest, the taste of him bitter and stinging on your tongue. “I’ve taught you how to get faster. I can slow you down, too.” 

“I fucking love you,” he announces, making your heart lurch, since it’s clearly still not used to the shock of such a wild, wonderful truth pushing inside it like an arrow. You clamber down beside him, pull him to your chest and press your lips into the sweaty wreck of his hair. He touches you, like he’s been waiting a lifetime for it. 

“Don’t know why you do,” you tell him, kissing his temple, lingering and sweet. “But that’s all I’ve ever wanted.” 

“Why?! Because you’re awesome,” he slurs, clearly still high on his orgasm, sloppy and loose in your arms. “Love your grandpa robe and the way you smell and your hugs and your blue eyes and how weird and goofy you get when you drink wine. Love how you call me boy. It made me hard so many fucking times before I figured this out, took me long enough to realize why,” he mumbles. “ _Jesus,_ m’so happy you don’t just like. Think of me in a son-way, I was so sure you did. M’so happy I didn't _imagine_ you checking me out.” 

Looking hard and longing at Lightning McQueen is a thing you do too much, like drinking, like hurting. But it got you here, flush against the perspiration damn heat of his body, so you decide not to beat yourself up over it, too much. “Always keepin’ an eye on my precious cargo.” 


End file.
